An tam a dh'fhalbh, am ri teachd, Sealbn
by Deathwater
Summary: Jack Randall is ALIVE. An unexpected trap is waiting for Jamie & Claire when they return to Scotland to fisit family. Join John, their grandson, as he reads the stories and learns the history of his grandparents. rating will change as story continues.
1. Default Chapter

Well, here goes my first try. A fic for all you Diana Gabaldon fans. This is the first fic I have ever written and if I can say it before all you readers do, it's pretty weak. I do give it the fact that it is just the prolog to a series of chapters that I hope get better as the story advances.  
  
  
  
James Fraser shivered as the frigid night air swirled about his bare chest. Glancing through the broken panes of the frosty glass, he searched the dimly lit woods for stray lobster-backs.  
  
"Jamie!" s voice snarled from behind him, "Get back under this quilt, we're not going to survive the night if we don't save some body heat between us." Turning around Jamie shuffled on his knees to the frail form huddled in the corner of the burnt out shack.  
  
"Claire." He cued, holding the shaking woman tight against his warming skin, "We will survive, but we need to find a break in the night watch to slip through." Shaking his auburn hair out of his ocean blue eyes, he left his terrified wife and turned once again to the broken window.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Swearing profoundly, Captain Jack Randall stomped his booted foot, spun, and marched back through the tightly woven fabric of his tent, abandoning the chaos of hundreds of soldiers camping for the night. Snorting at the mess that encompassed his miniscule work and living space, Jack plucked his ledger from a pile of shriveled papers and began marking off possible hiding places for his quarry.  
  
"Sir, Mr. Jack, sir?" A timid voice questioned from behind the loose tent flap, "May I present Mr. Dougal MacKenzie?" a tall bearded Scot marched purposefully past the timid attendant and into the waiting belly of the English Army.  
  
"Milord." Dougal slurred sarcastically, "I believe I may have information on a certain convict." Smugly Dougal stepped past the bewildered commander and helped himself to the half empty bottle of whisky sitting on the cluttered desk.  
  
"Do you now." Randall stated more then asked recovering his poise, "And may I ask why you are obliged, no willing to share this information with the likes of me? You are a relation of his, a close one, are you not?" Dougal choked, and began to pound himself vigorously in the chest, attempting to force air back into his whisky doused lungs.  
  
"Aye, Jamie is a relation of mine, and I've me own reasons for a wantin' him dead." He sputtered between gasps of breath. Randall sighed, and led the sputtering Scot to the cot in the corner.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Young John Jeremiah Alexander Fraser MacKenzie shivered as his father closed the worn leather book for the nigh and popped off the carpeted floor like a bottle rocket. Remembering he had just reached the dignified age of ten, he settled himself calmly on the freshly turned sheets of his twin bed before reaching up for a goodnight hug.  
  
Keeping a grin off his face with the will power he hadn't known he possessed, Roger bent down, hugged his son, and walked slowly from the dark room to the warm embrace of his charming wife, Brianna. 


	2. The Note

Disclaimer: Weird. The one word that perfectly describes this fic and how it relates to the original stories by Diana Gabaldon. After Roger and Brianna return to their time (after their son John is born) the take up residence in the United States because they figure it is the place closest to Claire and Jamie. Bringing their son through the stones may have been a mistake because he is having strange dreams and the dynastic duo don't know how to cope with a child who sees the past; even though he doesn't know what the hell he's seeing. Well I suppose you've had enough of a briefing so I'll zip-it and let John tell you the story.  
  
  
  
  
  
John Mackenzie woke with a start. The room glittered in the pre-dawn light, casting shadows across the plush carpeting. Glancing at his train clock on the desk he groaned. 5:22 it read. Flipping unceremoniously onto his side, He reached out a tentative hand and switched on the chilly lamp. Curling into a ball John went through the dreams of the night, which he could remember with startling accuracy and attempted to find the jolting memory that had shaken him from the deep slumber of an exhausted nine-year- old.  
  
  
  
  
  
Two hours later a light flickered on down the hall, shining its silhouette through the patch under the oak door. Quickly switching off his light and sliding soundlessly back under the handmade quilt, John shivered. He was not quite ready to share the new revelations of his dreams with his parents, but there was one person who could understand what he was trying to puzzle through, Miria. The one person who had always been there for him, and who did not laugh at his dreams. Well his parents never had laughed, but they had always dismissed his dreams as random thoughts that come from watching to much of the tube.  
  
  
  
  
  
'It's their fault!' he thought bitterly to himself as the sound of water running announced his father's departure from the dream realm. 'If they would stop making me read all that history junk this would even be a problem!' Ever since his mother had insisted that his father read to him from that dang leather book his dreams had become even more vivid and occurred more often, but more than that, the man and that woman (Jamie and Claire thanks to the dang book) looked just like mama!  
  
John shook his head and tried to force the distressing thoughts from his crammed head. Heaving a soul-wrenching sigh, he slipped from the not so safe sanctuary and into the frosty light of the air. In about an hour school would be starting and his worries would have to be forgotten for another day as he puzzled though the mysteries of life.  
  
"Honey, rise and shine." An overly cheerful voice called to him from down the hall. "Your father wants to leave early so he can get your school work for the next month before we leave for Inverness." 'Inverness!' John thought with alarm, 'I nearly forgot!' Speedily completing his morning rituals, he hopped down the stairs grabbed a pop-tart from the toaster and screamed up the stairs, "I have to talk to Miria before I go, be back in a sec." After racing through the back door, he tripped, caught himself, and raced on, determined to speak to her before he left the country for an entire month.  
  
"Miria!!" He screamed frantically as he pounded on the rough wooden door, "I have to talk to you! I'm leaving remember?" John squeaked suddenly and clamped his eyes tight. Opening them slowly he looked down at his stinging hand and flinched at the sight of his own blood pooling around the hair thin slice. Glaring at the door he stuck out his tongue and searched for the source of his new injury. That is when the crumpled brown piece of paper came into view. Twisting it off the brass knocker he unfolded it and read the blurry words:  
  
Dear John,  
  
If you are reading this note than you are finally nine years old and are taking your first trip out of the country to the sacred place it all began, Scotland. I'm sorry I'm not there to protect you or to help you understand your dreams, but pressing matters in France have come up and I have to attend to them. I might meet you in Inverness in 6 days time to help you understand I few things that most definitely will come up. Remember to keep an open mind and to always trust your dreams even if everyone in the world says differently, for I know what is to happen, history is to repeat itself and you are to meet people and understand where you came from.  
  
  
  
John read and reread the note, trying to puzzle out the words as if they were a riddle. Finally giving up he walked slowly back up the street of downtown suburbia to his quiet forest green house, to pack for the month long trip ahead of him. 


End file.
